


Glass Vibes

by aPaperCupCut



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Be ready for fancy symbolism, F/M, I had to post this im sorry, Surrealism, Vague, dream-like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-02 14:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10220624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut
Summary: A strange occurrence featuring Wilson being a weird, zoned out weirdo and a confused, pure Wigfrid.Otherwise known as the rarepair I'm weak for.





	1. Pelican Dance

He wandered into the camp, stumbling and wild-eyed, dusk melting against the sunken indentations of his footsteps. He was other, a sparrow with torn wings, only toad’s eyes to guide him.

Alone, a spool of lavender cloth disintegrating in her life as time fled by. He grew all manner of things while she hunted all manner of prey, fruit like honey rising from black earth, inky beside the flesh she sliced from its neck.

Each night, they huddled close to the fire, distant and cold. An apathetic ocean cooled the wings of the sun, turning the dim flame to a blackened blue.

Winter reunited, and she learned that he knew a great deal more than she did, wizened and roughened by sands of muggy fears. Wigfrid knew how to cut gently, but she feared the Winters, could not bare to embrace that ominous dawn like a lover.

But the stranger had, despite the deepening scars it tore into his ears and teeth. Perhaps she should have been able to see that - his worn coat was a thin imitation of wealth, his hair thick with grease and muck, impoverished and lonely.

He must have gotten lost, to be here now.

He built a small shelter within a glowing cave, coaxing her in with cold hands. She began to learn his words, caught in the misty gaze his sparrow wings’ lacked.

And he learned her stories, her battle cries and prayers. Together, warm from the fire, warm from each other's heat, warm from murmured-almost words, safe from the hungry Winter’s caresses.

They didn't know each other's names.

Snow and ice soaked back into the maw of the earth, and the two returned to duties long since left to dust.

Wigfrid returned to the hunt, just as before. Her cries of battle echoed in the empty valley, filled with watery milk and growing ever so slightly in touch.

He continued to build his strange machines, carefully carving his mark into the black soil. Each heavy vine carried colorful flowers, laden with sun warmed fruit, each growth holding a lost speck of home and sea.

The rain began to thunder down. He huddled close to her, tucking his head into her warm arms, protected from the piercing droplets of syrup and tar.

His eyes were closed, gently hidden away, his shallow inhale and exhale even. Her fingers brushed his soiled hair, and she almost felt those elusive wings he kept underneath unfocused eyes and pale lips.

He was a kindly cat, so quiet and so calm, no matter the looming danger. She held him in her arms, a mass of flies, worrisome and concerning, forming just beneath her breast.

Each day the shades of sparkling ice fell, like a mother weeping for her lost children. A catcoon joined her, saved by an impulsive flicker of resentment. Its eyes were blue holes, face twisted like moss along the riverbed it had drowned in.

The little thing hunted well enough, and provided the stranger some small joy when she left him alone; its tail was long and embracing, squeaks like a swallow, comforting to her sparrow.

The mourning rains wilted, and the air grew warm again. Fire, welcome and excited, burst and smiled in a familiar symphony.

Homeless, lonely and quiet, his eyes, silver disks set into a too-sharp, youthful mask, grew ever dissonant. She stilled and stared back, a welling violet stream resting in her chest. It was comforting, was disconcerting, and she ushered him in with a frown she could not feel.

He slept on the other side, the other side of her mind and existence. Did her sparrow dance on that other side? Were the toad’s eyes watching her on that other side?

The thing, with blue wells buried inside its hungry mind and a tail that spoke, purred against the sparrow’s hollow chest. She wondered if she could feel his heart, thumping in time with his dusky pulse, just on the surface of his cavernous breast.

She began to worry.

The farms he so meticulously cultivated began to die, drying beneath the sun. And still, his hollow, pale chest sunk and his eyes deepened and his wrists thinned. His wings shivered beneath the folds of skin the flies and maggots burrowed beneath.

She tried to cheer him, telling of wild stories she knew he did not believe. He remained quiet, mouth a line of dust in the wind.

He slept on the other side, slept and lived so far from her, tucked into canyons of darkness where milky suns shone without light. The evenings continued to warm, and they abandoned the stretched silk, abandoned the narrows they nestled in.

He showed her the rectangle sky, told her of how it used to be - empty of stars, empty of life, hollow like his chest and barren like her voice.

Stars grew, blossomed across the abyss, and he beheld them with an awe that only flying could bring. Unfamiliar, both to her and to him, but they were like a painting, a pool of ocean water filled with fireflies. 

The wispy cries of hounds and shadows accompanied them, rousing the still air. She turned to his face, saw only sparrow’s wings fluttering.

His gaze was to the sky, the sky she had always known but he had seen drawn into the velvet of the world. His cluttered spheres glowed, little worms excited and entranced, attention only on the blanketed river above.

She followed his hands, his journey through the silent, tumultuous black. Each night, just like those rainy nights before, they watched the sky together.

She fell silent during those times, always turning to his figure and wondering. His hollow chest rising with each light breathe, her pulse low in her mind.

Wigfrid, when the moon turned round and full like the belly of a starving beast, traveled into battle, blood hot and mind far-away. He charted the dips and crevices of the starving with knives of steel and mind of paper.

When the sun rose, and the heat emanated from the earth, Wigfrid slept. She hunted in the evenings, the dappled dusk keeping her flesh cold.

She breathed beneath the shadowed shelter, watched the stranger busy himself. He wore a large, floppy hat, woven from delicate words and leftover wishes.

Wigfrid watched with a fascination she did not feel. He approached the small, shadowed area, smelling of dirt and sweat and fear. He was afraid.

She resisted the impulse to comfort him. Instead, she began to weave a far-away tale, one closer to old reality and distant memories than to anything she had ever experienced.

But he didn't weakly smile, eyes soft and ears closed. He turned his glazed eyes to her, eyebrows taunt and flickering fingers tense.

His whole attention was on her words. She grew increasingly entrenched in the story of Winnie, the housemaid, tired resident of the City. They listened to it together, gentle sounds pouring from her open chest.

The sun set, and the catcoon relaxed on their touching knees. The fire crackled, and as the last whispers of purple hair fluttered away from the darkening skyline, she concluded her tale.

He stared at her, with those enormous, foggy eyes, hollow chest echoing the shades surrounding their fire. She watched the bursting clouds and warming suns.

A quiet plume of air, and he spoke. He did not tell her his name.

The morning brought a chill breeze, signalling the end of Summer. He began eating well as the farms birthed fruit.

They seemed to get closer with each passing night and each passing season. The only words were of Wigfrid’s tales and the scientist’s astronomy mutterings.

All day, she went hunting, traveling far and bringing back meat to store and little interesting trinkets the scientist loved. The catcoon matured and bore kits, mewling things with wide, pink maws and white toes, little amusing swallows.

The scientist laughed.

Time passed like that; like infinity, like it had always been like that, just Wigfrid and her hollow-chested, thin-wristed sparrow.

With just her storytelling and his passionate dialogues, shared at night when the stars burst like water across leather, when their breathes interloped and escaped their intertwined fingers. In Winter, in Fall, sheltered in warmth near the fire, together and quiet. In Summer, in Spring, sheltered beneath the violet overhang, together and quiet. He was a slinking cat, a purring kitten, delicate against her chest, never too close, never overtly obvious with his affections.

They fell into place, comfortable and quiet, patient. Intimacy, a curtain of cool green lacquered across her limbs, forgettable and ever-present.


	2. Peanut Butter

Underneath her, legs splayed and back arched in taxidermic likeness. His blue fingers drew long, crisp lines across her solid back.

Such a needy thing, mewling so softly, sweet and gentle under her breathe. She beheld his scalp in her empty hands, stared into his sealed doors.

He was whimpering, hands quivering with raw regret.

Corded arms of slight twang swept around his flickering form, listened to his slow, steady heartbeat. He acted like he was panicking, but he must feel of cold and taste of bitter tamarack.

Wigfrid kissed the skin stretched over his thin neck, felt his pulse under her lips. A hand slid upward, and settled against her sternum, feeling her stuttering heartbeat in return.

He looked up at her, eyes round like glittering coke bottles. She fell into the wing’s emptiness, that milky gaze that felt of intense wind and narrow focus.

Her mouth met the space between his eyebrows, thin hairs tickling the corners. Those flinty hands crept up her dragon spine, and she slowly relaxed again.

Had she tensed? she closed her eyes, touched her forehead to his.

Their legs tangled, and they turned into an other space, where they were specs of infinitesimal droplets of gray.

She loosened her grip on his skull, running her fingers through his thick hair. The starlit strands were clean, like a deep well of spring water.

Outside, above them, the hounds clamoured, legs pounding against the hearth. She wished she could see the sky. Here there was only earth and weight, oppressive and encompassing.

His nose wisped against her clavicle, a calculated distraction. Arms embraced her, thin reeds ready to break.

She wondered if he ever would.

His hollow chest, concave and uneven, rose and fell against her breast, and his lips brushed against the hollow of her throat. She smiled, impulsively, and brought a dry thumb to his cheek.

Eyes open again, still like pools of deep pits, the toad staring back at her from the depths.

A sigh.

There was something warm in her, something was in her.

He was needy, was clawing at her, wasn't he? was desperate for another’s touch and smoke, no matter their origin or nature.

But it was her, and she - she felt something.

A thump, and his shoes were gone, clammy toes pressed against her thighs and knees.

She resisted laughing outright. There were still monsters about, above and watching. He wiggled, and, chuckling softly, she slipped his worn coat off, exposing thick cotton and fields of covered flesh.

Comfortable. Nothing but their breathing.

He smiled, thin mouth turning up sincerely. Calculated distraction from her thoughts, to him only.

To the scientist only, to the desperate, hollow-chested stranger only.

His hands brought her face to his again, and he kissed her ocean jawline gently. She relaxed, intentionally, brought her form closer to the cliffside flame, body heat mingling contently.

She huddled close to him, his body wrapped around her like a cat around its beloved companion. Like a sparrow, piecing together a rambling nest, confusing and illegible except in its dreams.

Soft rumbling in the dark, no space between them.

She brought his hands to her shoulders. He brought hers to his cheeks and eyes. Smooth, long caresses, intentional, light kisses to sensitive skin. Presses against their stretched calves, intertwined and unfocused.

The glow of fungus, lighting up his eyes with blue smears and bringing stark contrast between their silted skin.

His eyes closed first, but her breath steadied before his. Their bodies fell to slow slumber.

A brief escape from the world above, loud and taunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sister said I should never talk about this again.

**Author's Note:**

> ... I might have an actual overarching plot. Because of course.


End file.
